"You Broked My Ears!"

The Club's open, and we're having a dance party! MixMaster Lou is spinning the best of the '80s and '90s, while Mac and James own the dance floor, sashaying and rolling and leaping and grooving. And who's that, mamboing by the stairs? Why, it's Mom, all decked out in the ulitimate loungewear--a tee-shirt and sweats!

I love this.

I love that now that I'm grown and can't go to the clubs anymore (because of the kids, not my age; I could be 78 and still willing to go to a dance club), I bring the club to me. Cocktails, loud music, and energy--now that's what we're talkin' about.

Every night, around 7, we create our own little speakeasy in the basement. Sometimes, we go for a Latin blend, while at other times, we work toward a modern vibe. No matter what the mix, we dance and we laugh and we celebrate different styles of music. Together.

The interesting part is that I think I prefer the home-front club scene to the real one. I like the pure joy of my children as they race around the room, giggling. I like the fact that when my cool dance moves have sequed into a rendition of Dennis the Menace's father slipping on a banana peel, no one laughs--that, if I'm lucky, someone might even remark: "Hey, mom, that looks cool."

I love this because I realize that my children will not always want to dance with me. That we will attend weddings together and they will cringe when they see me on the dance floor at the reception. That they will one day be aware of their mom's untoned arms and lack of rhythm.

"That looks cool" will give way to "That looks stupid."

Right now, I'm Shakira. In a couple of years, I'll be Elaine from Seinfeld.

I remember it myself. I remember Margie, the neighbor kids' mother, coming to pick a carload of us up from a middle school dance, and shuffle-walking down the hall. She shuffled right into the gym, where she proceeded to tell a group of eighth graders that she was going to teach them some moves. I remember thinking, as Michael Jackson's "Billie Jean" played in the background, that I would kill my mother if she ever pulled a stunt like that. I remember instructing her, that very evening, that when it was her turn to pick us up from a dance, she was not to even get out of the car.

The "cool" to "stupid" transition is already starting. We were driving home from Borders the other night and "Walking in a Winter Wonderland" came on the radio. I started singing. Within seconds, there were shrieks from the backseat, where Mac had clasped his hands over the sides of his head and was screaming: You broked my ears.

I don't need anyone telling me that I look good when I dance or that my vocal range would impress Barbra. I am finally at a place where my own enjoyment, my own satisfaction and contentment, surpasses any worry over what someone else thinks. But a genuine compliment hurled in my direction every so often warms my heart.

Even if I have been known to break a few ears.